He lifted MacLir in his arms and climbed to his feet, the hum of the river calling, begging for her return. Striding through the dense grasses, he came to a narrow path leading to the river. He entered the moving waters, letting the cool currents guide him to the proper place.
Standing shoulder deep near the river’s center, he held her below the surface, her white hair fanning across his arm in a farewell embrace.
He pressed his lips to her cheek, and with a quiet word to her, he bowed his head in grief, his eyes closed in sorrow. Silently he beseeched the waters to reclaim her and began the whispered chant of respect for a fallen friend.
The river surged around him.
Reclaiming…
Recovering…
Repossessing… fey flesh.
A dark seething built inside him.
An all-consuming rage.
For who had done this.
For those who had taken Lana.
There would be no compassion, no mercy… not ever.
Hatred flowed and shriveled the noble part of him until all he felt was a need for retribution.
And as MacLir’s small body dissolved back into the tender tare of the blue waters of the river, he flung back his head and roared his fury.
The cruel resonance of it covered the land like a smothering blanket.
And all the waters grieved.
———
Lana struggled her way back to consciousness. She lay on her right side in a smear of strange purple shades. She stared at a wall of flattened rocks with swirling etchings that looked like thin black snakes curling into circles. Her excessive imagination again, she thought distractedly. Snakes on walls. Lashes drifted down at the wave of sudden wooziness. Her tongue darted out over dry lips. Disoriented, she took a shaky breath at the knifelike ache throbbing at the back of her head. The reeking smell of rot assailed her sensitive nose and she felt her stomach lurch. Bracing herself, she carefully pushed up to a sitting position.
With a trembling hand, she wiped her watery eyes.
“Hurts?” a male voice asked.
Lana brought Cadman’s face into focus, except it did not look like the Cadman she knew at all.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
She swallowed hard and shook her head, which only made her eyes cross in pain.
“Mayhap you should not do that just yet.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Here, press this to the back of your head. It will make it feel better.”
He spoke differently too, she thought.
“Take it.” He held out a white cloth to her.
“What is it?”
He looked at the cloth. “Nothing fey, I assure you. Just a plain woolen cloth dipped in cool water.”
Taking the damp cloth, Lana pressed it to the tenderness at the back of her head and winced.
“What happened?” she asked when she felt she could speak. “Where is Keegan?”
“I am afraid some angry faeries attacked. I could barely save you.”
“Where is Keegan?”
“They have captured him, Lana. May I call you Lana? “
She did not care what he called her. Obstinately silent, she climbed to her feet and stumbled, falling to one knee.
“There now.”
He reached out to help her.
Lana crouched back against the rocky wall. “Who or what are you?”
He smiled tolerantly, though his jaw tensed. “I am Cadman.”
“You are not he.”
“But I am, Lana. ‘Tis my mortal form.”
She looked at him questioningly. “Spriggans doona have mortal forms. You look like a man.”
“Aye,” came the self-satisfied reply.
She did not like the sound of that.
“It may seem strange to you, but I am a half-blood.” He tugged at his short brown beard. “My mother was a farm girl, my father a spriggan.”
She scoffed at that. No child could ever be born of a spriggan rape.
“ ‘Tis true. I have been unjustly condemned for their deed, made to pay for their love and devotion to each other.”
She could not imagine any girl who would willingly lay with a rock faery.
“Neither the lands of spriggan nor of men could accept their joining,” Cadman continued despite her mistrust. “They were banished and raised me on the outskirts of the fey woodlands. You must believe me, Lana.”
She was not sure what she believed anymore. “You gave me your covet bread, full of lust and aching,” she accused.
He smiled and sighed. “Doona condemn me for that. I find you beautiful and could not help myself. It will never happen again, unless you will it.”
Never would she will it.
“You stare at me with those night eyes, Lana. Am I so ugly?”
She shook her head. “Nay, ‘tis only that you look so different from the Cadman I know.”
“Mayhap you can grow accustomed to me as you have grown accustomed to the guardian?”
His words held an undercurrent that made her uneasy.
“Can you?” He sounded irritable, almost impatient.
She shrugged.
“We will start with that.” Taking her arm, he helped her stand. Lana found he was now as tall as she was.
“First we must get you well,” he said. “Then we will rescue the guardian. Then we will find Valor.”
“Keegan, you know where he is?”
He shook his head. “I have an idea where they took him. Doona worry, they will not harm him.”
“How do you know?”
He looked at her with a smug grin. “They were after you, my sweet. They will use the poisoned guardian to draw you out.”
Poisoned? How did Cadman know Keegan battled Darkshade poison? She kept the thought to herself. “Do you know where they hold Valor?” she asked.
“I know as much as you know.”
She made an effort to appear calm. “Where are we?”
“Do you not recognize a feypath when you see one?”
A feypath? Derina had taken her through one of the underground passages long ago. Carved out of rock and stone, the feypaths were ancient, shrouded in dark incantation and foreboding. They were sacred to the fey and were never meant for mortal trespass.
She wrinkled her nose at the remembered foulness.
“You smell the taint of faery spitefulness,” Cadman explained. “My kin doona like encroachment. After a while, the smell will seem like a wild flower’s fragrance to you.”
“I think not,” she retorted, finding the stench offensive.
He laughed low. “Mayhap. Come, I know of a place to rest up ahead.”
Lana allowed him to support her as they walked. “Cadman, I doona wish to rest. We must find Keegan and Valor.”
“We will, but you must be able to walk on your own, Lana. How do you expect to rescue the guardian and the enchanted sword when you canna stand without my assistance?”
Despite the painful pounding in her head, she recognized the truth of his words, to her chagrin.
“Now walk with me. Place one foot in front of the other. One of my homes is near.”
She gave a consenting nod and leaned on him heavily. The back of her head throbbed, as if she had fallen on a rock, but her thoughts became less foggy. Though she did not like Cadman’s hands on her, she expressed her gratitude, and walked beside him, her steps surer with each passing moment, his easy words of reassurance an ongoing hum in her ears.
They walked along the feypath for a long time; at least, it felt like a long time to her. On either side of the rocky walls, gray vines grew.
At last, he guided her around a sharp bend and stopped before a smooth slab of stone shaped in an arch. Sculptured stone faces surrounded the arch, marking a doorway to another place.
“My home,” he said, and pushed the slab aside as if it weighed nothing.
Lana entered a large cavern with several wooden pillars. From holes in the low ceiling, light-refracting crystals hung suspende
d on clear threads. Ledges jutted out, holding pots and vessels with handles. Gleaming piles of finger rings and bracelets, bronze and silver tores, and women’s combs were everywhere. Stolen treasures, she mused, a spriggan’s craft. Folded neatly to her right were colorful woolen cloths. All dyed from the labors of a mortal hand, no doubt. The deep blue purple probably came from the spiderwort plant, the red one from madder root, and there were other shades too numerous to mention. It took a long time to plant and grow a dye garden and to care and shear the sheep. The wool had to be presoaked, a pot of water had to set to boil beneath a sturdy flame, flowers picked and petals dropped in for the desired hue. Then the wool was added. After tinting, it must be dried in the sun, spun into yarn, and then woven into cloth.
It took only seconds to steal it.
“Come, Lana. You can rest here for a while.”
He guided her to a space beside the wall where a bed of sheepskins were piled.
She knelt in the soft bedding, feeling a little bit better. As she rolled to her hip, a hand tenderly caressed her cheek and Lana fought back a cringe of revulsion.
He sat across from her, his steely eyes locked on her face.
Silence gripped the cavern. The air felt thick in her lungs, making her heart flutter.
“Do you like my treasures?” he asked in all seriousness.
She raised her head and looked around. “You have many.”
“Aye,” he said proudly. “More comes.”
She nodded, waiting for him to continue.
His hand swept the chamber. “I have been promised incredible treasure from the Formorian.”
He had her at a disadvantage. “The Formorian?” she asked warily.
“Beyond the northwest tip of the land, he and they shall return. The sea raiders of the long noble legs and single hands, the black forces shall slip through and retake what belongs to them,” he ranted, making no sense to her. “The rushing wave of death…”
“Bress?” she interjected, guessing the name of the “he,” and effectively silencing him.
He smiled and nodded. “Lord Bress returns with his father’s warriors to retake the fey throne.”
She shook her head. “The throne belongs to the Faery King Nuada.”
“Nuada is blemished,” he replied with a touch of resentment, gesturing irritably. “The throne belongs to Lord Bress, the Formorian. Do you know the bard’s song of the Fir Bog battle, Lana?” he asked.
All in her tribe did.
He began the familiar chant, mimicking the soothing voice of a bard and changing the words.
()o& ()o& ()o&
Emerging from the white mist, a great war came. The
Fey King, Nuada, a powerful lord, lost a hand in the
confrontation. Considered blemished, he gave up his
sovereignty willingly to Bress, a hero of the battle.
Born of a Formorian lord and a Tuatha woman, the
fair Bress ruled for a few years. He was ousted from
the throne and in his place returned the blemished
Nuada, who now had a new hand of silver…
()o& ()o& ()o&
“I doona remember it that way.” Lana knew he altered the verses, leaving out many important parts. Nuada, a just and fair king. The vain Bress ruling for seven years, sacrificing the welfare of his subjects for his fathers kin…
“History is a matter of interpretation, is it not?” he commented quietly.
“History canna be changed to suit one’s whim.”
“Mayhap.” He gave her a strange twisted smile. “You will be safe here, Lana. No harm shall come to you. I will see to it.”
She ignored his assurances. “When does Bress return, Cadman?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
He grinned in answer and took her hand.
She yanked free. “You are a betrayer to your people,” she said through her teeth.
He peered at her, all gentle manner gone. “Not I.” He snatched her hand back, his thick fingers digging into her flesh, daring her.
“Do you know why the guardian needs you, Lana? I do. Do you want to hear?”
She glared at him.
“You were never meant to return, Lana. Your guardian would do anything to save Valor, anything, even sacrifice you.”
The coldness of his gaze startled her for a moment.
“I speak the truth to you, whereas your guardian, like all of his kind, speak only mistruths.”
“Keegan would never lie to me.”
“Guardian’s lie? Never,” he agreed. “They imply, suggest, speak only partial truths to mislead and misinform. They are fey born, Lana.”
“You are fey born,” she rejoined.
He shook his head. “I am born of a mortal woman.” His thumb stroked her wrist. “I am more like you than like them.”
Coldness crept into her blood, into her very existence.
The smile returned to his lips, a smooth, fey falsity. He released her and stood. “Rest for a little while,” he said more calmly. “I will prepare for our journey to rescue your guardian.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I am honorable. What makes you think I would attack your guardian?”
“You side with Bress,” she accused. “And it is his faeries that attacked us.”
“Lana, Lord Bress is honorable. He would never condone faeries attacking you and your guardian with a Darkshade dagger. Those faeries must be acting on their own for reasons unknown to us. Mayhap they search for Valor as well. The great sword would be a worthy prize for any fey born.”
You are commanding them, she thought. I never mentioned a Darkshade dagger.
“I have a few things I must prepare for our journey. It would be wise to take the time to rest now. You look weary. I will return soon.” He strode away without a backward glance, disappearing into one of the shadowy rooms of the cavern.
Lana clutched at her wrist. Bruises already formed on her flesh from Cadman’s cruel grip. Heart quivering, she placed a palm over her breast, wondering what to believe. She felt languid and slow, and eased her head down upon the soft skins. Her heart hurt, a deep draining ache, something new and terribly unfamiliar.
Just for a moment she would rest, she thought to herself. Her eyes fluttered closed and she slipped into oblivion.
CHAPTER 13
HE STOOD IN THE DARK meadow without expression, nostrils flaring, dragging in the scents of the warm night. There was a perfect and dangerous quality to him, the mark of a rightful fey guardian. He sought movement in the meadow, sought prey. He lifted his face to the northeast breeze and took a deep breath. No fey marker did he detect. The air and land smelled clean.
The swirling of unfamiliar emotions tightened like ropes across his chest and he bared white teeth, his silvery wings stretching out and retracting.
He dropped down to one knee, sinewy muscles rippling beneath fey webs. Long, blunt fingers dug into the black soil, searching for scent sign. Retribution flowed in his bloodstream, fueling a primordial and elemental rage. He knew fey born ways.
No mortal ever glimpsed a faery unless the faery wished it.
And MacLir never wished it, except for Lana.
This left only the fey born.
One of his fey kin was a dúnmharfóir, a black-hearted murderer.
And the dúnmharfóir had taken Lana.
Fey born perceived the residual presence of other fey born, yet he detected nothing, no shimmering shards and no lingering scent.
He blinked once, a slow closing and opening containing the fury within.
Inhaling deeply, he refocused.
A sinister light flashed in his eyes at the thought of MacLir being dragged from the river to dry ground. The murderer had smashed her head in.
His menacing snarl rent the air.
The dúnmharfóir dared to take Lana.
Dared!
He jammed the fingers of his left hand deeper into the moist soil, seeking he
r scent.
He was Rain.
First Guardian of the Waters.
Protector.
Defender.
Warrior.
His eyes shut, leaving the weaknesses of his mortal inclination behind.
The muscles in his left arm strained.
He focused on the scents beneath land, those retrieved through his sensitive fingertips. The guardians belonged to a long ago time. They were the warrior fey, beholden to the land, air, and waters. In return, gifts of extraordinary uniqueness had been given to them.
His face became harsh with concentration. He had to go beyond the typical underground scents before he could locate her distinctive fragrance.
He focused. First came the foulness of plant and animal decay, death returning to the dark soil. Always death, he sensed first.
Next came the pleasant essence of plant and animal life, affirmation of existence.
He tilted his head, brown hair falling down one shoulder.
Somewhere near, the coppery odor of womb blood marked an animal’s birth.
Then there were the bodily wastes, a part of the land, and forever felt.
His fingers strained, seeking the scents at the lower depths of the land. He could distinguish the fresh underground streams now, the crystals, and the minerals.
Beyond that lay the feypath’s taint. He detected faint traces of heather mixing with the fey stain of his spiteful kin.
Raw violence shuddered through him.
The delicate floral fragrance of heather combined uniquely with Lana’s sweet flesh. He would know her scent anywhere. A growl rumbled in his throat.
He had found her.
She had been brought through the underground fey-paths. He jammed his fingers deeper into the earth, seeking what he needed. “Show me where,” he demanded in a low snarl. “I want.”
———
The sharp pain in her heart lessened to breathable dullness. Lana lay quietly on the soft sheepskins, deliberately peering through her eyelashes and faking sleep. In the outlying chambers, she could hear voices arguing, a mixture of fey and mortal accents rising in agitation. The thought of believing anything Cadman said sent uneasiness through her. She had to rely on her instincts and find a way to get out of here. She had absolutely no idea which way to go, but knew only she must leave the underground chambers. She would rather take her chances in the feypaths than remain in Cadman’s lair.
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